


How Deep This Runs

by BewareTheIdes15



Series: Not A Verse [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Related, Car Sex, Formalwear, Jealousy, M/M, Prom, Rough Sex, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:03:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam should have known. He's more than reasonably smart if his grades are anything to go by, he's always been a good planner, and this, this is the one subject he knows better than anything they've bothered to teach him in school. This is Dean, and Sam should have known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Deep This Runs

Sam should have known. He's more than reasonably smart if his grades are anything to go by, he's always been a good planner, and this, this is the one subject he knows better than anything they've bothered to teach him in school. This is Dean, and Sam should have known.

How can he do that? How can he stand under fucking powder-blue crepe paper and a goddamn disco ball and look like living, breathing sex? Sam's standing here, looking like an idiot in a rented tux that smells like industrial cleanser and a frickin' white rose boutonniere - and ok, stopping dead in the middle of the dance floor to stare at his hot next door neighbor is probably not helping the 'looking like an idiot' scenario – while Dean looks... pornographic. Tuxedo pants held up by black suspenders which are the only thing keeping his dusky nipples from showing right through the dress shirt because from the way Dean's got it unbuttoned all the way down, sloppily tucked into his waistband, it's pretty obvious that he's not wearing anything underneath that crisp, white cotton. Holy fuck.

At least it's dark enough that there's a good chance that the multi-colored toggle lights haven't highlighted his massive boner enough for anyone to notice, though Gwen seems to be kind of pissed that Sam's basically ignoring her. The sharp pinch she gives him is evidence enough of that; at least the formal jacket takes the brunt of her manicured talons.

With an effort, Sam manages to pull his eyes off of Dean - speaking of basically ignoring, Dean doesn't seem to have noticed that Sam's actually in the room, too caught up talking to Melinda Culpepper's cleavage - and gives Gwen a weak smile. She huffs a little, elaborately styled blonde hair flipping with a toss of her head, but she rests her tiny, sharp-pointed hands on Sam's shoulders and starts swaying to the slow beat pouring out of the speakers – totally ignoring the bulge in Sam’s pants. Sam picks up the beat fast, his own big hands covering too much real estate across the back of Gwen's red dress and - seriously, Melinda Culpepper does not have that great of a rack!

Dean grins up at her though, then opens his mouth to display that little glint of metal Sam can pick out even from here - he knew no good could come of that damn tongue ring - and Melinda leans in with this impressed, hungry look on her face, to which Dean grins some kind of obscene proposal - Sam can't exactly hear it from here, but he just fucking knows it's obscene.

"Ow! Jesus, Sam!" Gwen yelps tugging at the stranglehold Sam has around her waist. Sam's face flushes hot, an apology already sweeping across his tongue when his eyes catch on the receding backs of Melinda and Dean, heading for the front entrance. The older boy stops for a second, spiky blond head turning just enough to lock gazes with Sam. Those green eyes are sharp, hard, a challenge glittering in them, all for Sam.

Then they're gone, drowned in a sea of tuxedos and prom gowns and right out the front door.

The cheap Italian food he'd taken Gwen for before the dance has turned to molten lead in his stomach, his skin flushed and fever-hot in a way that's got nothing to do with embarrassment or lust or anything else he knows how to put a word to. He's going to be sick and that's all there is to it and damnit he's so fucking mad he could put his fist through a wall. Or Dean. Dean would be better.

He never should have told Dean he was coming to this stupid dance - not that he really could have kept it a secret; Dean would have found out one way or another even is Gwen hadn't been gabbing about it to every animate creature in a five mile radius - should never have been stupid enough to think that Dean could just let him have this one easy, normal night.

No, Dean just HAD to show up - even though fucking prom was just about the last place Dean would ever want to be – looking like THAT, to prove some kind of fucked up point about... something! Sam didn't even know what Dean was getting at and he damn well couldn't think straight with all of those images of Melinda and Dean filtering into his brain. Dean on his knees, Melinda's dress hiked up around her hips with Dean's face buried between her thighs; Dean's arms wrapped tight around her, holding her weight as he pressed her back against the wall; Dean's face contorted in that mask of agonizing pleasure as he spills hot and wild into the condom - and he better fucking well use a condom - and...

Shit!

Sam manages to mumble some sort of half-coherent excuse about the bathroom - he seriously is going to puke all over his stupid rented shoes in about two minutes unless he finds Dean. And damn him and his stupid pretty face, and his goddamn winning smile and his motherfucking quiet sincerity that only Sam ever got to see because… Christ, this isn't Sam. He isn't the one who gets all irrationally jealous like he and Dean are a real couple or something, he doesn't freak out every time Dean gets laid - which isn't exactly rare - he didn't want Dean to be with him and only him, all evidence to the contrary as he slams his way out of the front door of the Rec center and tears though the parking lot. No, this isn't his role, but apparently he’s playing it anyway because there they are ahead of him, just stepping up to the Impala.

Of course, the problem with playing this part is that Sam doesn't actually know the lines, so when his shiny patent-leather dress shoes skid to stop a couple of yards from Dean's car, he hasn't got a clue what to say. Dean hears him though, turns instantly with eager fire burning so bright in his eyes they're practically glowing.

"You ok, Sammy?" The concern might be halfway believable if Dean wasn't grinning like a maniac. Melinda pulls the twin to Gwen's hacked off expression back on the dance floor - what, did they pull girls aside and tutor them in this shit?

That hot lead in Sam's stomach is boiling now, bubbling and hissing against the lining of his belly, trying to crawl up his throat on the burn of bile the longer the older two stare at him expectantly. Dean's not rescuing him, just stands there and watches him squirm - smug bastard - until Sam's feeble brain finally chokes out.

"Not feeling so hot. Thought maybe you could take me home."

Stupidly, Melinda opens her mouth to snap something at him and Sam's instant dislike of her flares. Dean cuts her off anyway, absolute evil glee in his voice when he says, "Sure thing, kiddo". Sam's pretty sure he hates Dean.

Melinda squawks, honest to God squawks, and Dean spares her one blinding smile before hustling Sam around her and into the car, leaving her standing under the soft halo of a streetlamp. He really hopes she'll explain things to Gwen.

Sam sinks back into the vinyl seat, head lolling against the headrest, his sickness almost entirely dissipated with the smell of Dean and dirt and upholstery cleaner. The air feels immediately cooler, more breathable, and Sam tugs his bowtie open where it feels like it's been trying to strangle him for hours.

Dean looks positively feral in the strobe-fast flashes of streetlights, hands gripped creakingly tight on the leather cover of the steering wheel, gaze cutting to the side to check on Sam every few seconds. Neither of them speaks, nothing but the sound of tires on pavement and John Bonham breaking up the quiet until the pavement turns to gravel and the gravel to grass before Dean finally parks.

It's one of their spots - they have plenty – the back side of a little fishing pond on the back forty of the Mordice's property. Not hard to get to really, but it doesn't seem like many people know about it; least ways they've never run into anyone else out here.

It's silent once the motor cuts off, except for the croak of frogs in the water, still too early in the year for cicadas. Sam hears Dean shift on the seat beside him but doesn't let himself look. He's not really sure how he feels right now; relief and frustration and want all warring for the top spot so hard that mostly he just ends up as tired.

"Check you out, all done up for your big date." Dean doesn't say 'for her' but Sam hears it anyway. He lets his head roll to the side, looks at Dean in the cool, blue-tinged moonlight. His eyes are dark and glittering, wider and heavier than usual so he must be wearing that eyeliner too – probably just to torture Sam. The rest of him is all Dean though, sharp angles, strong lines, all that determined intensity with the volume turned up to max; debauched and oversexed already even though they haven't touched yet.

Dean hooks two fingers in the top button of Sam's shirt, pulls him forward by it - damnit, this shit is rented! - until the little space between them heats up with the press of their bodies. "Wanna mess you up, Sammy. So pretty all fucked up, fucked out for me." Dean ghosts his lips over Sam's until the younger boy is aching to press forward into it, unwilling to give that last inch because it's what Dean wants and he’s fucking tired of just giving Dean whatever he feels like taking. He can't help the way his breathing goes ragged though, the way his briefly ebbed erection comes back full force, straining against the slightly too-short dress pants.

"You know you need me, baby. Gotta pull you out of all of that shit you pretend to care about, remind you where you belong." The heat of Dean's hands melts through the thin fabric of Sam's dress shirt, skating up and down his chest teasingly, thumbs pausing to flick with laser-perfect aim over his nipples.

"You don't know anything about what I want. Not your business to come dragging me out of my life." It would help if his lips didn't keep catch-dragging on Dean's, if he didn't sound, feel, so goddamn hungry for it.

"If that was really what you wanted, you'd still be there with your pretty little girlfriend, making nice with all the townsfolk. But here you are, with me, that's what you picked. What you're always gonna pick, Sammy, 'cause you need me so bad you can't think straight." Sam hears those unsaid words again, 'just like I need you', and they tear at something inside of him. His gut’s churning with heat and he doesn't even know whether it’s that he wants Dean so much he can taste it, can't resist letting the tip of his tongue catch on Dean's lips when he licks his own slick, or that he hates him too, wants to punish him, hurt him, get him just as wound up and tangled inside as Sam is.

Sam slams their lips together with all of the force he can muster, sharp teeth digging into soft flesh until the coppery tang of blood fouls his tongue. Dean's just as vicious, gives no quarter, just fists his fingers in Sam's hair and holds him in the kiss. It's all teeth and tongue, both of them pissed off and ravenous and so deep in this thing that Sam doubts either one of them knows which way is up anymore.

The click of metal is loud against his teeth as Dean's tongue fucks its way into Sam's mouth, matching the steady rhythm of the not-enough pressure of Dean's hand cupped around his rock hard cock. Sam can't keep back a moan so he doesn't even try, ends up getting lost in the throb throb throb all around him; Dean's hand, Dean's tongue, Dean's heartbeat hammering against Sam's chest, the machine gun pound of his own molten blood in his veins. He takes it all and snarls for more against Dean's mouth, head swimming with too much and the all-consuming need for more.

Thick fingers tear at the buttons on Sam's shirt, finally managing to get them undone over a blue streak litany of curses Sam's pretty sure Dean's just making up off the cuff. His undershirt just gets rucked up under his armpits, Dean's ragged fingernails laying down fiery tracks over the tender flesh of Sam's belly. His head bounces against the side window when he tosses it back, Dean's mouth already pouncing on the bare stretch of his throat with hard, merciless nips.

Sam hears himself gasp "I love you," knows in a heart-stopping, gut-wrenching way how much he means it.

"Know you do, Sammy," Dean smears into Sam's collarbone, "Getting sick of reminding you." Sam hisses when sharp teeth clamp down around the jut of bone, pull and tug until the blood’s so close to the surface he feels like he's been burned.

Dean's hands tug Sam's fly open, his whole body skidding down the seat with the force of Dean pulling his pants down. His underwear joins them around his knees and Sam's left arching up from the shockingly cold upholstery on his bare backside. One broad hand flat to his stomach pushes him down against the seat, make his body adjust to the startling cool against overheated skin while Dean looks down on him like a raptor surveying its prey.

"Just look at you," Dean purrs, two fingers ‘V’d around Sam's engorged shaft just under the ridge the way Sam's seen him hold a beer bottle, "What would all you prissy little friends think if they could see you now? All strung out and hungry for me, so fucking willing. You let it go so fast, baby, don't know why you gotta act like it's not what you want."

Dean gives him a chance to snap back with something, but he's right, Sam's strung out so far he doesn't even care; Dean can say whatever filthy fucking thing he wants right now, all it does is ramp up the roar of blood in Sam's ears. So instead of answering Sam curls his hand around the couple of fingers Dean's got scissoring Sam's cockhead and pulls them up to his mouth.

Sam can be a tease too, when he's got enough blood in his brain for it, but right now the desperate little gasps catching in Dean's throat are just a byproduct. Sam's just enjoying the feel of Dean's rough skin against his swollen lips, the heavy texture of callused fingers and the taste of his own precome on the nubs of his tastebuds. It just gets better when Dean's control snaps, his fingers pushing all the way inside to massage at the back of Sam’s tongue.

Dean's other hand is bruising on his side, pulling Sam up, shuffling and urging him around until he's over in the driver's seat with Dean, back to chest, the hot, heavy line of his dick pressing into Sam's ass through the tuxedo pants Dean hasn’t undone yet. His legs are braced across Dean's – pants sliding down to bunch around his ankles - so his ass isn't actually touching the seat and when Dean pulls his fingers free from Sam's mouth, dragging a mournful sound out right along with them, and plunges them right underneath Sam, immediately finding the furled pucker of his entrance.

Dean gives him one finger straight off, pushes in all the way to the knuckle even when Sam's muscles scream and tighten. The older boy finds that searing bright spot inside of him though, and Sam's muscles forget what they were upset about in the dizzying rush of adrenaline. He lets his head fall back on Dean's shoulder, nose pressed into the hollow below Dean's ear as his friend opens him up with a second digit.

Dean's other arm is wrapped around his chest, idly playing with Sam's nipple while his occupied fingers spread and curl, randomly finding that perfect blinding place that makes Sam's knees slam into the steering wheel. Dean's hips rock in little churning thrusts, so soft it’s probably nothing more than unconscious reflex.

"Gonna ride my cock like a good little bitch, all hot and tight for me," Dean growls into his ear, a shudder twitching all the way down Sam's frame at the coal-dark promise in that voice. "Give you just what you need, baby."

Then Dean's tearing at Sam's jacket, gets it off with a struggle that earns him an elbow to the jaw that Sam doesn't even bother to feel bad about. The shirt gets hung somewhere around Sam's biceps when Dean just gives up and pulls his fingers free to undo his own pants.

There's not anywhere close to enough air, everything Sam's pulling down feels thready and weak in his aching lungs. His skin's oversensitized, like a steam-burn over his whole body, everything too hot, too tight, too much and he's got to have more or else he’s just not going to make it.

Sam's pitched forward suddenly, hands catching himself on the steering wheel while Dean awkwardly fumbles in the glove box, finally comes out with their lube. It's seconds, literally seconds, before the cool, slick press of Dean's cock is snugged up against his hole, Dean's fingers tight around Sam's hip as he slowly guides the younger boy down onto the hard press of his cock.

Sam gasps at the flash-fire sting when it breaches him, the swell of heat blooming in his gut from all of that pain, the promise of pleasure. Dean's arm wraps firmly around him once he's fully seated, spread out on Dean's lap like a little kid.

His friend murmurs non-sense words of pleasure and praise that all sound like love, punctuated by 'Sammy, Sammy, my baby'. Dean's hips roll, not really a thrust, just a shallow slide that gets Sam's muscles jerking again on the slow deep rhythm. Big fingers slide into the nest of curls at Sam's root, scritching through the hair but not actually gripping anything. Sam whines in his throat, nuzzling and kissing at Dean's ear to urge him on.

Dean mumbles a 'no', a barely perceptible shake of his head where he's got his lips buried against the curve of Sam's exposed shoulder.

"Gotta come on my cock, baby, nothing else. Know you can," is stuttered and breathless like Dean's just as far gone as Sam is.

Sam whines again, half-swallowed in the instinctual thrash of his body because he wants, he just WANTS and it's not going to be enough. Then Dean starts pumping his hips, grip tightening on Sam's hip to help move him up and down in the uncomfortable sort of crouch he's stuck in. His hands latch onto the wheel for balance, earns himself an extra little bit of leverage and when he cocks his hips just so - oh yeah!

Dean takes his strangled shout for a signal, pounds whole-heartedly into the angle Sam's set up and he's like a lightning rod in an electrical storm, not enough time for one shock to dissipate before the next one hits.

"Never gonna shake me, baby. All mine, all mine," Dean huffs into the heavy air fogging up the windows. He doesn't have to say 'say it' for Sam to know his part.

"Never, never, never. 'M yours, all yours. God, Dean!" Sam's hand skids across the dash, catches on the wet windshield and all he can do is flip sweat-damp hair out of his eyes and arch his back for more. And Dean gives it, gives him everything, right up to the edge of pain until Sam's vision starts to silver out and holy fucking hell, it's gonna happen just like Dean said.

Some choked squeak sound makes it part way out of his mouth as the heat pulsing in his tense balls swells and then blessedly Dean's hand is there, barely a brush of his fingers against the head before Sam's blowing it.

Dean works him through the shuddering gasps of pleasure with the force of his cock inside and the pressure of his hand outside, milking every ounce from Sam until his body just gives out, fucking collapses over the wheel.

Dean raises up behind him, braces himself awkwardly against the dash and just goes for it, pounds Sam right into the curve of the wheel. His hand, sticky-slick with Sam's come presses into Sam's neck, a couple of fingers catching on his jaw and cheek before they drag all the way down his chest like a milky, cool racing stripe. Dean slams into him one last time, pushing as deep as he can get as his dick spasms inside of Sam, warmth spreading around him.

They crumple back into the seat together, Dean still half-hard inside of him, the two of them nothing more than a breathless pile of twitching muscle. Dean pets at Sam's sticky chest, pleasure vibrating through him in absent little hums. Sam hasn't quite convinced his eyes to roll forward in his head again so he just buries his face in the comfortable niche of Dean's neck, caressing the soft curve of the older boy's hip beneath him.

Sam says "I love you," again, long after that's usually off-limits according to his rules. And he means it. Even with his own come drying itchy across his body - wonder how much the cleaning fee is going to be for the tux? - and Dean reluctantly sliding out of him, he still means it. It feels like that ought to be more of a shot to the gut than it is.

Dean's eyes go all glittery-soft when it comes out of Sam's mouth, no sex high to blame it on this time, and then Dean kisses him, smooth and slow and deep.

They stay like that for a long time, lazy kisses and soft touches; easier and more sensual than they usually allow themselves. Sam's come is dry on his skin, Dean's slowly seeping out onto the vinyl by the time they pull themselves away.

It feels like more of a loss than it ever has before, to not have Dean's lips on him, his heat wrapped groundingly around Sam. The space between them across the benchseat feels cold and empty and a thousand times to far.

As soon as he gets his pants done back up, Sam scoots in close again, tucking his arms around Dean's waist. It's weird like this, with him clinging and Dean just opening up and taking it, like the world decided to have Opposite Day and forgot to tell Sam. He can't figure out why now and not any of the other hundreds of times they've done this, can't figure out what changed, just knows that achy thing inside of him wants Dean right the hell now and he doesn't have the strength to deny it.

"Love you," he mumbles again into the warmth of Dean's chest and his friend's arms cradle him, strong fingers brushing back the mat of hair that keeps falling over his eyes.

"Love you too, baby," Dean breathes into the top of Sam's head, tiny kisses pressed into his hair and deep, hitching breaths in the broad ribcage under Sam's palm. He starts to drift in it, the fog of comfort overtaking the forced patter of worry in his head. Dean's heartbeat is steady and sure under his ear, like Dean always is, always has been even when Sam's tried to make it all harder.

He should have known it couldn't be easy – should have known that the struggle of it wasn’t going to be Dean’s fault. Still, with this warm, whole feeling filling up his chest like a balloon, it just might turn out to be worth it.


End file.
